


The Beginning of All Things

by bananacosmicgirl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Babies, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananacosmicgirl/pseuds/bananacosmicgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pregnancy did not suit Cutthroat Bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one was a hard one to birth. I started it on March 30th 2008, after watching “Don’t Ever Change”, but stopped after the first chapter, having no idea of where to go with it. After a month or so, I picked it up again, dropped it again, picked it up again—and so on. It was finally finished on July 1st 2008, and I am very proud of it; this turned out much better than I could have hoped. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I, despite the hardships, have enjoyed writing it.

  


Pregnancy did not suit Cutthroat Bitch.

James Wilson, however, hand on her back and being every bit the caring, gentle dad-to-be, did not seem to notice. Even as she growled at him, not even bothering to blame it on pregnancy hormones, Wilson stayed by her side. He understood, _he_ blamed it on pregnancy hormones, even as she appeared to want to throttle him.

House smiled grimly – her wish to throttle him was in his favor, because if she hurt him, she would pay, but then again, the hellish brat growing in her uterus turned things around again. He watched them through the blinds, as his team went on behind him about their latest patient, Thirteen suggesting cancer and that perhaps they should get a consult. House didn’t reply, but Kutner did, refusing to believe it could be cancer.

“House?” asked Thirteen.

“He’s watching Wilson,” Foreman said, bored, reading a newspaper and not looking up.

“Seems to be doing that a lot,” Kutner muttered, probably thinking House couldn’t hear him.

But while House had a problem with his leg, he had never had any problems with his ears. On the other hand, he found it impossible to care either way about Kutner’s words. Puzzles in every shape and form had always, always been his thing, but lately—Wilson-watching took up most of his time. Then again, that could be constituted a puzzle.

Said Wilson had just left the corridor, leading Cutthroat Bitch into his office, and somehow, he seemed to have missed the impatience and anger on her face.

“Schedule an MRI, and then get that consult,” House said. “Not you, Kutner.”

Kutner stopped, and looked at House with fearful expectance.

“Enjoy my clinic duty,” House said. “I hear the flu’s going around.”

“But what—”

“It’s not nice to talk about the other children when they’re in the room,” House said, and Kutner paled and scurried out of the room, after Thirteen and Taub.

“You do watch him a lot,” Foreman said calmly, taking a sip of his coffee and barely sparing a glance at House.

“I could pretend I had no idea what you’re talking about, but that seems stupid and I don’t do stupid,” House said, “so I’ll go with, ‘haven’t you realized I’m like totally and completely in love with him, like?’ instead.”

One of Foreman’s eyebrows rose, clearly unimpressed. “Whatever you say. But if you want to solve this case, you’ve got to get your head in the game.”

“’Head in the game’?” scoffed House. “What are we, watching bad football?”

Foreman shook his head, rose and headed for the door, newspaper in hand. “I’d suggest you go talk to him, but that involves getting in touch with your feelings, which you clearly aren’t, so—just focus on the case.”

He left, before House could come with a witty retort.

Go talk to him? Yeah, as if. They had exchanged ridiculously few words since House had realized Cutthroat Bitch was pregnant – House seemed unable to do anything but spew nastiness all over Wilson, Wilson’s choice in girlfriend, and the coming baby. And he could see the hurt on Wilson’s face each time he referred to the baby as ‘the bitch’s spawn’, and for some reason, it made his heart hurt. He pretended not to notice, because he did _not_ care. Really, he _didn’t_. The image of the now clearly visible bump of the spawn did not make House physically ill – it didn’t, really – and even if it might have, Wilson was the very last person he would ever tell.

Besides, Wilson was _happy_. Even as the Bitch whined, bitched and fought her way through the months, trying to make Wilson as unhappy as she was, Wilson’s contentment didn’t lessen. He was – and even House from a distance could see this – over the moon about having a child. There was a light in his eyes, a spring in his step; every one of those silly ways to describe a happy person could be attributed to Wilson. Really, it was one of the things that had made House suspect to begin with, though for once, he hadn’t dared confront Wilson about it until after a few weeks.

Wilson had been called for a consult on a patient House doubted had cancer, but he wanted an excuse to watch Wilson, and barging into his office like he usually did didn’t fulfill that particular need.

“What do you need?” Wilson asked as soon as he came in the door, hair combed perfectly in place and his pens in neat order in his breast pocket.

And then he smiled, in a way House had never seen Wilson smile about a consult. It was just _there_ , impossibly bright and ridiculously beautiful. None of the others seemed to have noticed – Thirteen shot Wilson a look, but it lasted only a second and then it vanished, and the three other men didn’t move a muscle. But House saw, and when their eyes met a minute later, House knew that something had changed. This wasn’t about Cutthroat Bitch, although he seemed happy enough with her. This was something different.

When Wilson left, House hurried after him, ignoring the questions from the fellows about what to do next.

“House,” said Wilson calmly, as House fell into step next to him. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You’re happy,” House said.

Wilson glanced at him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is that a crime?”

“You were on anti-depressants a few months ago – now you’re smiling at— _everything_ ,” House said.

“So?” asked Wilson, and he unlocked the door to his office, holding it open to House because he knew House wouldn’t leave him alone.

“So, either you’ve finally dumped Cutthroat Bitch and decided that freedom is wonderful, which you haven’t, because I saw her drop you off just this morning, or something else’s happened,” House said. “And it can’t be your cancer kiddies all finding a cure, because I’m sure it’d be one of those things they’d report in the news—apparently, cancer is rather wide-spread and a cure would be a good thing.”

Wilson had sat down calmly during House’s speech, and he was going through his mail.

“So it’s a personal thing, whatever it is,” House said. “And the Bitch doesn’t seem to be nearly as happy, so whatever it is, it’s a better thing for you than her.” He paused for a moment. “She finally agreed to take it up the ass?”

Wilson looked up and regarded House, some amusement in his eyes, rather than the annoyance House had expected. “Yes, of course – that’s my dream, that’s what makes me happy all day long.”

“Ah! So you admit it – you _are_ happy,” House said.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Wilson said. “I only asked if it was a crime. And it doesn’t seem to be, so perhaps you should try it sometime.”

“No thanks,” House said.

He thought of Cutthroat Bitch, and then of Wilson’s happiness. She had seemed more sullen lately, rather than happier. Wilson had taken extra care of her – he came in late often, with some lame excuse or other, and either they were screwing like bunnies every morning, or there was something else. It had to be something else, because Wilson had had sex with his wives in the previous years, and he still hadn’t come in late and been inexplicably happy. And Cutthroat Bitch had been unhappier, snapping and growling, catty remarks flying all over the place.

And then something clicked, as it usually did, and he’d blurted it out before he even had time to censor himself, not that he ever did anyway.

“She’s pregnant.”

Wilson looked up then, his eyes no longer amused but shocked, his stance frozen. His silence was far more than enough confirmation to House.

He stood, feeling shaky. “Cutthroat Bitch is pregnant.”

He stared at Wilson, who averted his gaze to the desk. “Yes.”

For once, House was at a loss for words; he had no witty retort, no cutting remark falling from his wicked tongue. He could only stare in shock at his best friend, who continued to avoid his gaze.

“How long?” asked House.

Wilson looked up. “Three months. I’ve been planning on telling you, but I didn’t know how—”

“So you just didn’t instead,” House sneered. “Great choice.”

“I knew you’d react like this!” Wilson said.

“And how is ‘this’?” House said coldly.

“Angry!” Wilson exclaimed. “As though my having a baby with Amber is an insult to you, as though it’s not a wonderful thing, as though I don’t deserve happiness.”

“Not with her,” House said. “She’s using you.”

“She’s having our baby!” Wilson said. “How is that using me?”

House had no idea, though if he thought about it for a minute, he was certain he would have an answer. Unfortunately, his brain seemed to have melted into a puddle of useless goo, his thoughts having come to a stand-still, and the only thing repeating itself was, _Wilson, Bitch, brat, Wilson, Bitch, brat—_

“I’m thrilled, House,” Wilson said. “Can’t you just be happy for me?”

“I didn’t know you wanted to be a father,” House said. “Why so eager, suddenly, to raise the Bitch’s spawn?”

“I didn’t know I wanted it,” Wilson said. “I didn’t think I wanted it. But then she told me and it just—felt so right.”

“So eager to have a kid and watch him grow up – how fucked up do you think he’ll be, with her as the mother and you as the father? She, with nothing before her eyes but herself, and you—have you started lactating yet? Considering she’s the one with the balls, I’m assuming you’ll be breastfeeding?”

“God, why do you have to be such an ass?” Wilson exclaimed. “Why can’t you just be happy for me? You’re supposed to be my friend – my best friend!”

“Should’ve thought about that before you knocked her up.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Wilson asked, aghast. “I’m not replacing you. You said you were fine with me dating her.”

“Dating and having babies do have a lot in common, don’t they? One ends with sex, the other one starts with it,” House snarled, blood boiling though he could not quite say why.

“House—”

“Wilson,” he imitated childishly.

“What changed? Why’s it so wrong for me to want the child Amber’s carrying?” Wilson asked.

“She’s not—”

“Not what? Not you?”

House clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to say more. _You’re sleeping with me_. The words came unbidden to his mind, the words he had uttered just a few months ago. Three months – she must have gotten pregnant soon after that. Proof that she was not him – he never wanted children, would never give anyone children, would never give Wilson a child, would never be enough for Wilson. He had thought he still had time, because Wilson had yet to pop the question, but obviously—

“It’s not even about her anymore,” Wilson said. “I love her, I do, but it’s—it’s a child, House. My child. Just—try. Be happy for me.”

His eyes pleaded with him, brown eyes still alight with joy even as they talked, and House couldn’t stay in the room with him. The walls felt as though they were closing in on him, suffocating him slowly, and all he could see was Wilson’s face, the warm brown eyes asking him to be happy for him, when he’d found love and meaning with someone else.

He slammed the door after him as he left, pain wracking his body, although he did not recognize it as heartbreak.

Now five months had passed, and he had recognized it, though he refused to admit it – he couldn’t say it out loud, because who could he admit it to, and he didn’t want to admit it to himself, because that led him to dangerous grounds. And falling for your best, male, straight friend, who had a pregnant bitch for a girlfriend, was definitely dangerous grounds – not to mention monumentally stupid.

Cutthroat Bitch, who had taken up a job at a Princeton General, seemed to be around quite a lot these days, and House wondered sometimes if she did it for him, if she was there just to show off what she and Wilson had together, the thing that House would never, ever have with Wilson. Knowing her as he did, it was entirely possible. In fact, he could see her keeping the baby just to fuck with House’s head – what he really could not picture, was the image of her as a mother. Sometimes, when he allowed himself to feel, that made him angry, because despite what he might or might not have said in the last few months about Wilson’s abilities to be a good father, he did think Wilson would do a good job. He didn’t deserve a girlfriend, a wife, who would so dislike the chores a baby brought. And House knew she would hate it, because she was like him, and he wasn’t parent material.

A knock on the door distracted him of his thoughts, and Wilson stuck his head inside. House arranged his face in a scowl, because Wilson couldn’t know what he’d just been thinking.

“Got a minute?” Wilson asked.

“Did you bring me anything?” House asked.

Wilson rolled his eyes, smiling slightly and producing two paper cups, presumably filled with coffee.

“Will this do?”

House made a non-committing sound and Wilson came inside. His hair fell gently down the sides of his face, and he looked relaxed and well. Though House hated the reason for this look with a passion, he couldn’t hate the look itself. Wilson looked _good_.

Wilson placed the coffee cup in front of House, and he let it sit there, regarding Wilson instead.

“Was there something you needed?” he asked.

“I just—I thought,” started Wilson, “We haven’t talked in a while.”

“You’ve been a bit preoccupied,” House said, although he was perfectly aware that whilst Wilson had been busy with Cutthroat Bitch, House had also been avoiding Wilson.

“Yeah, and I’m sorry about that,” Wilson said. “Amber’s been—well, I suppose she’s worried about being a mom and all. And her pregnancy hormones are just going crazy, so I’ve been—”

“At her beck and call, twenty-four/seven,” House said.

Wilson winced. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but—yeah.”

“Does it seem like I care?” House asked.

“You haven’t—uh, pestered me much lately,” Wilson said. “I thought perhaps the whole baby-thing made you uncomfortable. You—uh, didn’t seem too happy about it before.”

So Wilson remembered their first fight about the spawn, and he had also noted that House had been more absent than usual – House had started to think Wilson hadn’t noticed at all.

“Oh, I’m happy for you,” House said in a tone that said the opposite. “I’m simply a bit worried about what kind of havoc the devil’s brat will wreck upon the world once it’s been birthed from the flames of—”

Wilson held up his hand, eyes darkening. “House. Don’t.”

House snapped his mouth shut. He wanted to continue, wanted to ask, ‘so, should I post a warning on the religious sites about the devil walking the earth?’, but he couldn’t, because Wilson looked angry and hurt all at once.

“I know you don’t like her,” Wilson said, “and I know you don’t like children. But it’s my child – can’t you even try to be civil about it? I’m not asking you to be the godfather – you don’t really ever have to see him or her, if it’s so repulsive to you. I’m just asking you to be my friend.”

House glared. “You chose her, not me.”

“And I can’t have both? What happened to that self-sacrificing person I talked to?” Wilson asked. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“It doesn’t,” House said, rather loudly. “I don’t care either way – go have the bitch’s baby, get tied down for the rest of your life, be with her, marry her – fourth time’s the charm, right? – but don’t expect me to be there for you to cry on my shoulder when you come home and realize she’s cooked the baby for dinner.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Wilson exclaimed angrily, his eyes blazing. “We’re not having this baby to spite you! We’re having it because we want it – I want a child!”

“Of course you do – you’ll be hard pressed to find any needier creature than a baby,” House snarled.

Wilson stood, nostrils flaring. He opened his mouth to say something, but bit his lips together. He turned, crossing the room. As he pulled open the glass door, he spun around and faced House once more.

“It must be hard to care so little,” he said, and House could not decide if there was pity in his voice, or anger or sadness. Or perhaps it was recognition, perhaps Wilson had seen his rant for what it really was – a statement about how much House cared about Wilson, how much _he_ needed Wilson. In his attempt to dissect the statement, House missed his chance to reply, and Wilson disappeared out the door. Both cups of coffee stood untouched.

In the weeks following, Wilson said greeted House on the occasions when their paths crossed – House hardly ever responded – but other than that, the two didn’t exchange a single word.

House found that he had never felt quite so lonely before. He had always chosen solitude over the company of others, but it had never led to the sense of loneliness. Perhaps that was because Wilson had always been there, a safe, sturdy fixture, year after year and even after House tested the relationship over and over again. House could fight with Vogler and indirectly get Wilson fired, and he could piss of Tritter and thereby force Wilson to close down his practice, and he could steal a dead patient’s drugs and overdose, but they had always come back to each other. Wilson had always forgiven him.

But this time there was something more important on the line for Wilson – his child. Wilson’s priorities had changed and where House had been at the top of the list before, the unborn baby had now taken his place, pushing House down to the second. Perhaps even third, considering Cutthroat Bitch, although House wasn’t entirely sure about what Wilson felt for her, no matter what he said.

Cases came and passed, House solving them, yelling at the fellows and scaring the patients, his mood fouler than ever. When he had brought the latest patient, a teenage girl, to tears, Lisa Cuddy showed up in his office.

“You made her cry!” Cuddy exclaimed.

“You have a big ass,” House replied. “And on the next round of ‘State The Obvious’?”

“House,” warned Cuddy. “You’re going to apologize to her.”

“Now _why_ would I do that?”

“They’re threatening to sue the hospital,” Cuddy said.

“And I care because…?”

Cuddy placed her hands on her hips, glaring hotly at House. She tried to look intimidating, but had never succeeded as far as House was concerned.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” Cuddy asked. “You’re threatening to fire your fellows, you’re making the nurses run for their lives, and you’re making patients cry! That’s harsh, even for you.”

“Did Kutner come to weep on mommy’s shoulder?” House asked nastily.

“House,” Cuddy said. “This can’t go on.”

“Why not? It’s fun.”

“Go talk to Wilson,” Cuddy said.

“Have I been mean to him too?” House asked in a childish voice. “Did the big bad House make wittle Wilson pee his—”

“House!” Cuddy said furiously. “Either go talk to Wilson, or I’m sending you home right now.”

“Can’t, I have a case,” House said.

“I don’t care,” Cuddy said.

“I’m telling the patient you don’t care about her,” House said. “I’m sure that’ll get them out of their wish to sue the hospital.”

“House, I mean it. Either you go talk to Wilson and calm down, or you go home. I can have a decision from the Board this afternoon about suspending you if I have to – they’ve been itching for it since your rendez-vous with the electrical socket.”

“That was over a year ago,” House said.

“I don’t think they care,” Cuddy said. “It’s not like you haven’t done harebrained things lately, and that Vicodin addiction of yours is always a safe topic to bring up around the directors.”

House opened his mouth to speak, but Cuddy interrupted him before he could.

“No, no witty retorts or cutting remarks,” she said, holding up her hand. “You’re going to talk to Wilson, or you’re going home. Within the hour.”

She left, stalking of down the corridor with her heels clicking against the floor. House stared moodily after her, angry that she had to interfere with his life yet again. When would they learn? Interfering never ended well.

He popped a Vicodin, because while it didn’t dull the ache in his heart – and he nearly slapped himself for that sentimental thought – it did dull the pain in his leg, which had increased tenfold in the last few weeks. He could almost hear Wilson’s voice, telling him that it was all psychosomatic and in his head, and he pushed the thought away. He was _not_ in emotional pain! He did not miss Wilson! The notion was ridiculous.

Yet he could not bring himself to go talk to him. He knew such a conversation couldn’t end well – they had already had it, several times, and it hadn’t ended well once. So an hour later, Cuddy stood at his door, two guards with her.

“Two guards against a cripple – overkill, much?” House sneered, hobbling past them, glaring hotly at Cuddy all the while.

They followed him to the hospital entrance, and House wondered if he should put up more of a fight. But he had no energy left. He _wanted_ to go home, and then he wanted to get a bottle of whiskey or four out, and he wanted to drink himself to oblivion.

He saw Foreman, Thirteen, Kutner and Taub watching him from the second floor as he stood in the doorway. Thirteen looked sad – she was nearly as easy to read as Cameron – whilst Foreman’s face was neutral, obviously not caring one way or another about what happened. If House was gone, Foreman would run the show. Kutner and Taub watched curiously.

Then House saw a flash of brown hair and brown eyes, standing at the other end of the lobby. Wilson watched him, eyebrows pinched together, and he looked as though he was fighting with himself, perhaps about whether to go talk to House or not. House felt the same way – perhaps they could talk it through, get through everything. But before House had more than a second to contemplate the idea, the image of Cutthroat Bitch entered his mind, and in his mind’s eye, he saw Wilson and her together, Wilson’s hand on her belly, content and happy, a family, and House knew that there was no place for him in that picture.

Best let it be.

He turned, without saying a word, before Cuddy had time to start raving about how he had to leave. The sun shone outside, but House couldn’t feel the warmth – his heart felt as cold as ice, his body wrecked with pain and his soul completely empty.


	2. Chapter 2

  


In the week since he had been sent home, he could not remember spending a single minute in any state near sobriety. He had been forced to leave the apartment to go buy more beer and liquor, and for that hour, he had been a bit less drunk, but save for that exception, he had been severely intoxicated for almost seven days.

Not that it mattered. 

A day after being sent home, Cuddy had called him, and the hesitance of her voice had made him suspect why she had called immediately.

“Amber had the baby early this morning,” she told him. “A little boy. He’s beautif—”

“Call someone who gives a crap,” House said roughly, ending the conversation. 

So they had birthed their spawn. A boy – before he could stop himself, House imagined a little baby, with Wilson’s brown eyes and a dark tuft of hair. It did not make him gush, or want to meet the brat, but it made his heart hurt, because it was Wilson. Wilson’s child. Wilson’s child with Cutthroat Bitch. Wilson, belonging to someone else, someone who wasn’t him. Someone with whom he could never compete.

He poured another scotch, downing it quickly, barely even noticing the burn of it. He’d downed too many already, and yet at the same time, not nearly enough. 

Cuddy had called again, a day ago, the shrill sound of the telephone cutting through House’s head like a knife. She had asked him if he was ready to come back.

“You know, I think I prefer it this way,” House said. “I have very good friends here – Mr. Beer and Mr. Whiskey are awfully nice company.”

“House—”

“Oh, don’t pretend to care now,” House snapped, not drunk enough to avoid noticing the pity in her voice. “Go throw a fucking party for Wilson instead.”

The call had ended quite soon after that, because it was terribly clear to anyone that House wasn’t ready to come back. House suspected that someone would soon be coming by – if it had been a year and a half ago, Cameron would already have been there several times, but she was happily playing house with Chase now instead, and House wouldn’t have to put up with her smothering anymore. He guessed Cuddy herself would come by at some point, to see that he wasn’t killing himself. Really, he was surprised she had not been by already. 

Cuddy came, her nose wrinkling upon taking in the smell of House and the apartment in general. She left and came back a while later, groceries in hand and a cleaning lady trailing behind her.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” House muttered.

“Good, because neither I nor she is one,” Cuddy replied. “But this place is a reeking mess and you look even worse. Go take a shower, then to bed, and then I’m force-feeding you if you don’t eat by your own accord.”

“You sound an awful lot like a babysitter,” House said. 

Cuddy glowered at him. “Just because you’re completely incapable of taking care of yourself—”

“I’m taking perfectly good care of myself,” House said.

Cuddy glared at him before shoving him into the bathroom.

“Hey, aren’t you going to help me take my clothes off?” House asked, suggestively and with a very slight slur that betrayed that he was still drunk, though not drunk enough.

Cuddy closed the door.

“But what if I don’t know what to do?” House said loudly through the door.

“You’ll figure it out, you’re a smart boy,” Cuddy said and he heard the clicking of her heels fade as she walked away.

House found himself in front of the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. He hadn’t shaved in the week since he had been sent home, which meant he had the start of a shaggy beard, and yeah, combined with the tousled hair that hadn’t been combed in equally long, and the blood-shot eyes with dark circles beneath them, House could see why Cuddy would consider him a reeking mess.

But then, what did it matter?

He showered and shaved, cutting himself twice because he was still drunk and he watched the blood drip slowly from his chin, all the while longing for another glass of whiskey. He doubted he’d get one as long as the Great Hospital Administrator With Way Too Much Time On Her Hands stayed. 

He was right, of course, and she stayed far longer than he wanted her to. He was fed – take-out, because Cuddy was no more a cook than House; that was Wilson’s thing – and then sent to bed, and even though the cleaning lady was still vacuuming his apartment, House fell asleep.

It was another five days before he was allowed to return to work. By that time, he had grown very, very tired of Cuddy’s frequent appearances at his door.

“Considering you don’t put out at all, I don’t see why I should let you in,” House said at one point. “I should just call one of the hookers—”

“You do that,” Cuddy had replied calmly, pushing her way inside. 

Returning to his job – which he did by coming in two hours late, mostly because he wanted to show Cuddy that he still wasn’t under her thumb – felt irritatingly familiar, and he recognized the truth in the old saying, ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same’. Wilson’s baby had not changed the world for anyone but House – and, he assumed, Wilson and Cutthroat Bitch, but that was beside the point – and the days passed with frightening ease, just the same as before. It was as though nothing was wrong, even though everything was wrong.

“It could be a tumor,” said Taub, about the latest of the freak patients they dealt with.

“We should get a consult,” Thirteen agreed. “House?”

House shrugged. Getting a cancer consult meant nothing these days – Wilson wasn’t at the hospital. He was at home, with Cutthroat Bitch and the spawn, leaving House to deal with other idiot oncologists instead. He would be home for three weeks, apparently, on what Cuddy had called paternity leave, and as much as House didn’t want to see or talk to Wilson, this was almost worse. 

He had thought about going over to the apartment Wilson shared with Cutthroat Bitch, but he just couldn’t make himself do it. He couldn’t face Wilson, couldn’t watch the pride in those brown eyes as he spoke of his son and about the brat’s accomplishments – even though the joyous accomplishments were bound to be along the lines of, ‘today he spit up on me!’. He didn’t want to see Wilson hugging and kissing the Bitch, or taking his son into his arms. He didn’t want to see the family, the happy, picture-perfect family, because the very idea of it made him feel ill. 

When Wilson did come back, he looked tired but every bit as disgustingly happy as House had thought he would be. He laughed, his eyes shining with bliss, and House heard the stories from Thirteen and Kutner, for whom Wilson had described his son’s development.

“Have you seen him, Dr. House?” asked Kutner in a moment of, what House thought was, tremendous stupidity.

“Do pigs fly?” House asked scathingly.

“Uh, no?” Kutner said. 

“Good boy,” House said. “Now, anyone want to discuss the case instead of drool and poopy diapers? Or perhaps the case and drool and poopy diapers, considering these symptoms.”

He ignored the way Thirteen regarded him. Ever since he had revealed to her – in a very House way, of course, because House didn’t do conventional – that he knew she was bisexual, she had taken to regarding him knowingly, as though she knew something about him that the others did not. It annoyed him, because there was nothing to know.

After he had chased them out, she lingered behind. 

“Any particular reason you’re still here?” House asked nastily.

“Yeah,” Thirteen said. “Dr. Wilson asked me to give you this.”

She handed him a white envelope and he took it with a frown. She then stayed, hesitating.

“Now that you’ve fulfilled your duty – you may go,” House sneered.

She pursed her lips. “Why don’t you just talk to him?”

“Why don’t you go stick your nose in someone else’s business?” he asked, imitating her tone of voice and trying to sound as nasal as possible.

“God, if you were both a little less stubborn—”

“God doesn’t have anything to do with it,” House said. “Now run along – the other kiddies are waiting.”

She glowered at him, but left a moment later, leaving House to glare at the envelope in his hand. After several minutes of staring, he opened it, and he noted with disdain that his fingers were shaking.

He knew what the envelope would contain, and yet when he opened it, it still made his heart constrict painfully. Three photos lay inside, all in color, all showing off a small, round, pink creature. Though they had yet to turn brown, the thing had Wilson’s eyes. The small tuft of dark hair was also Wilson’s. The nose was the Bitch’s. 

‘ _Sean James Wilson_ ,’ it said on the back of the first one, where the spawn lay wrapped in a blue blanket. 

The second had the baby in a green set of tiny clothes, and the baby stared up at the photographer with wide eyes, a bit of drool running down the side of its mouth, and House thought it looked stupid and doubted that he had ever looked that way. 

The final picture had Wilson holding the kid. Wilson wasn’t looking into the camera, and that was probably a good thing, because even though it was just a photo, House would have seen the joy shining in his eyes, and he would rather not deal with that. Instead, Wilson was looking down at the spawn, sleeping in his arms, a small, happy smile on his lips, apparently unaware that the photo had been taken at all.

There was no note, no explaining words to tell House that Wilson missed him. House had not expected such a note either – as Thirteen had pointed out, they were both stubborn to a fault. But Wilson was obviously proud enough of the brat – whatever there was to be proud of; at that age, they usually only ate, slept, pooped, and cried in between – to send him pictures.

House moved to rip the pictures apart – the last thing he wanted was a constant reminder of the spawn such as a photo – but he found he couldn’t. He sighed, frustrated with himself, and put the two baby pictures in the trashcan. The third, with Wilson in it, he placed in one of his pockets. His cheeks stung a little as he did so. He was Gregory House, he shouldn’t be carrying around pictures of his best friend and his best friend’s spawn. He should uncaringly tear the photos apart.

But he couldn’t, and he didn’t remove the picture.

A week and a half later, late at night, House sat on his couch and watched a game on mute, with a glass of scotch in front of him and jazz playing in the background. The now rather crumbled picture had made its way out of his pocket, and he glanced at it, taking a sip of scotch. He wasn’t drunk – not yet, anyway – but the photo rather made him want to be. 

When there was a knock on the door, House yelled, “Go away!”

There was another knock, no more forceful than the first, and House sighed, putting the picture away and getting up. House tried to figure out who would come knocking at this hour, on his door – Cuddy wouldn’t because she had a date tonight, the ducklings wouldn’t dare—

“Wilson.”

His heart nearly stopped upon seeing the other man when he opened the door. Wilson, in a brown jacket, grey pants, a shirt not quite buttoned up, with his hair on end, looked a mess. There was a distraught look in his eyes. 

But House did not stop there, instead taking in the suitcase, not quite closed but filled to the brim, standing on one side of Wilson, and in his hand – a baby carry cot with a child in it. 

“Can I come in?” 

Wilson sounded broken, as though he had cried, even though House knew that Wilson never cried. Wilson’s eyes bore into House, and House couldn’t utter any of the scathing, hateful comments his mind supplied him with. He moved aside, and Wilson carried the cot inside, pushing the suitcase with his foot, because it didn’t occur to House to help him. Instead, he stared at the little creature in the cot. 

Wilson swallowed. “House – my son.”

The baby was thankfully asleep, tucked in beneath a blanket in the cot so that only his face was visible. He wore a small hat. 

“Where’s Cutthroat Bitch?” House asked, when he managed to get his vocal cords working again.

“She’s—gone,” Wilson said, and the distress deepened. House thought he saw tears shining in Wilson’s eyes, but he blamed it on the light instead. Wilson didn’t cry. 

Wilson put the cot down on the floor next to the couch, and he flopped down, leaning his head in his hands. House stood perfectly still, watching him, having no idea what to do or say. This was not like the last time Wilson had come to him, when he had divorced his last wife – House couldn’t be sarcastic and rude, because unlike then, Wilson seemed completely broken this time. And even House wasn’t so heartless as to tear apart a person already in pieces, least of all when it was Wilson. 

“She said,” Wilson started, not looking at him, “that she never wanted the baby. That she’d—wanted to have an abortion, but—she didn’t because I was so happy. She said—she said she thought that she’d love him, but now she realized that she’s not—cut out to be a mother.”

“What did you expect?” House said.

Wilson looked up, and there was no denying that those were tears shining in his eyes. 

“Please, for once, would you shut up?” Wilson asked, voice breaking. “This isn’t one of my marriages failing – this is the mother of my son leaving and saying she doesn’t want anything to do with him!”

“You chose this,” House said, coldly. “You wanted him.”

“I still do!” 

“Then what do you want me to say?” House asked, sneering lightly, because no matter that Wilson had come to him tonight, Wilson had still betrayed him – he had had a baby with _her_. He had something more important than House now. 

“You could try to feel compassion for once,” Wilson said. “But I suppose that’s too much to ask. I just—I need some place to crash tonight. I couldn’t stay there—she’s not there, but I couldn’t stay in the apartment. I’ll sleep on the couch and I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow, I just—”

House sat down heavily, his heart hurting as much as his leg. He sighed. “Stay.”

Wilson looked at him with great surprise, though the agony in the lines on his face had not left. “Really?”

House made a face and muttered, “The couch’s always been here for you. I don’t know what to do with the brat—”

“Sean,” Wilson said. “Not ‘the brat’, or ‘the spawn’ or any other hell-related name you can come up with. Just Sean.”

“Don’t push it,” House replied. 

Wilson sighed. “I didn’t choose to have a baby to annoy you.”

“No? Then why did you?” House asked.

“It just happened,” Wilson said. “Amber told me she was pregnant and it just felt so—right.”

“Obviously not to her,” House said.

Wilson’s face fell dejectedly. 

“So where did she run off to?” House asked.

“She’s on a plane to California,” Wilson said quietly. “She was offered a job there, apparently. She’s already sold the apartment – said she’s been thinking about it for a while. I’ve got to be out of there by Friday.”

They leaned back, nestling into the couch as they had done so many times before, while watching a game or a movie. House could almost pretend that the little brat – _Sean_ , he reminded himself with a roll of his eyes – didn’t exist, and that it was just him and Wilson again. That they were there, making up again after some fight or other, perhaps about Vicodin, perhaps about something else. That there was a beer each on the table, not just House’s scotch. 

Perhaps he even, for a moment, imagined that Wilson would lean against House’s shoulder. 

When he looked over at Wilson, he saw that the other man’s eyes had fallen shut. 

He poked Wilson’s side. “Ey – tooth-brushing before sleeping. Aren’t you supposed to be the good parent now?”

Wilson glared tiredly at him, but did get off the couch. “Pillows and all in the closet?”

“Why would I move them?” House asked.

Wilson shrugged, and headed to the bathroom. House watched him go, taking in the slumped shoulders and the way misery seemed to radiate off of him. House glared down at the brat in the cot.

“This is all your fault, you know,” he said.

Wilson returned a few minutes later, and House could smell the hint of fresh mint of the tooth paste. Wilson had stripped down to his boxers and carried a pillow and a cover, and he nearly seemed to be sleep-walking. House regarded him as he turned the couch into his temporary bed, and he wondered what Wilson would think if House asked him to come sleep in the bed instead. He would probably think him crazy.

The baby still slept, although House suspected it would wake up soon and demand food, or a diaper change, or whatever else such a little creature could demand in the middle of the night. 

“If that thing starts making noise, you hit the off-button,” House said. 

Wilson rolled his eyes tiredly. “I’ll try to keep him as quiet as possible. I put some formula in the kitchen; I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, I always have formula at home,” House said. “It’s a great complement to beer.”

Wilson shook his head. “Goodnight, House.”

House didn’t intend to answer at first, but then he muttered, “Goodnight, Wilson.”

It felt like he had only been asleep for minutes when the cries started. They grew louder and louder, and House heard Wilson get up, heard him bang his foot against the table and swear about it. He could tell Wilson had picked the brat up when the location of the noise changed, and then heard the shuffling around as Wilson made his way to the kitchen to warm some formula. 

“There, there,” he heard, even though Wilson murmured and the door was almost closed. There had never been a problem with House’s hearing.

The crying stopped quite suddenly, and House could only assume that Wilson had managed to warm the formula and feed the brat. Wilson’s footsteps returned as he and the baby reentered the living room.

“There, that’s much better, isn’t it?” he heard Wilson’s low voice. “I know you miss mommy, daddy does too, but she’s not here now. You’ll just have to make do with daddy, I’m afraid. And you can’t cry like that, because we’re living with Mr. Grumpy Pants and he doesn’t like crying babies. And daddy really needs to stay here for just a little bit, to get his wits together, because without mommy, he doesn’t know what to do—”

Wilson trailed off, speaking even quieter to the child, so quietly that House couldn’t make out what he said. Not that it mattered – he had heard more than enough. Although the murmurs had been more to comfort the child, the words he had spoken were obviously true. Wilson was lost – and he had chosen to come to House in his time of need. House’s heart made a leap of hope – Wilson needed him. Wilson wanted him around, needed him around. 

The thought kept him awake for nearly an hour, long after Wilson had returned the baby to the carry cot and House had heard the sound of the couch creaking as its inhabitant returned. 

When House awoke the next time, by himself rather than by baby cries, it was still fairly dark outside. Pulling his legs over the side of the bed – his bad leg already hurting and therefore getting a Vicodin – House made his way over to the door as quietly as he could. 

Wilson still slept, looking mightily uncomfortable on the couch, which was too short for him. But even so, Wilson did sleep, snoring lightly. He looked younger; House had always thought Wilson looked younger when he slept. The lines of stress evened out, the anxiety of not being able to save the world disappearing.

House made coffee and when Wilson appeared in the doorway, baby awake in his arms and his hair on end, House handed him a cup.

“What, no blow-drying your hair?” House asked.

“Some things don’t seem as important anymore,” Wilson said softly, kissing his son’s forehead.

“You’ve turned into a sentimental fool,” House grumbled. 

Wilson flashed a tired smile. “I hope we didn’t wake you last night?”

House mumbled something intelligible, not wanting to get into a talk about what he had heard the day before. 

“I suspect you want to get to work on time?” he asked instead.

“I’d be nice, yeah,” Wilson said. “I just have to figure out what to do with him.”

“Leave him with Cuddy – she’s wanted one of her own for ages, so she can take yours for a test-drive,” House said. “I’m sure she’ll return him in roughly the same state.”

Wilson looked doubtful, and House wondered for a moment what Wilson would look like if House suggested he leave the kid with him. It was only speculation, of course, because House would never ask that, but still—

They drove to the hospital, Wilson securing the brat in a car seat that House hadn’t seen him bring, and they hardly spoke. House did not know what to say; Wilson had, yet again, turned his life upside down. House shot a glance at him through the rearview mirror – Wilson’s eyes had fallen shut in sleepiness in the few minutes since they had left House’s apartment – and he wondered if Wilson had always looked so handsome. Tired shadows not withstanding – Wilson was a beautiful man. 

And then he had to turn rather quickly, as he realized he had not been keeping his eyes on the road.

“Are you trying to get us all killed?” Wilson asked, sitting up straight and rather wide-eyed.

“That would make things easier, wouldn’t it?” House replied.

Upon arriving at the hospital, Wilson grabbed the car seat, the baby bag, and his portfolio and somehow managed to carry it all, whilst House hobbled next to him, carrying nothing.

“Thanks for all the help,” Wilson muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Hey – cripple!” House said, pointing at himself. “Besides, this cripple has already been nice enough to lend you his couch.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“And it’s a very comfy couch at that,” House said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Wilson said. He paused, and looked at House with a serious expression that made House want to run away. “But really – thanks.”

House made a non-committing sound. “Go drop the brat off with Cuddy. She’ll be thrilled, I’m sure – he’s at her level of intellect.”

House turned and left, glancing over his shoulder to see Wilson smiling slightly to himself. He pretended it didn’t make his heart leap with joy.


	3. Chapter 3

  


At nearly two months old, Sean James Wilson could still not impress House. The baby, who at the height of his ability could squeal with joy, or cry in a way that cut into House’s ears, simply didn’t make House go ‘aaw’ in the way that it seemed to make others do so.

“Wilson! Diaper needs changing.”

Wilson’s head became visible in the kitchen. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you’d do it?”

“Sorry, need to be able to hold my cane and I can’t change a diaper with only one hand, now can I?”

“But crazy medical procedures, like holding people’s kidneys in place, are no problem,” Wilson said, shaking his head. “As always, you make perfect sense.”

“Thank you.”

Wilson came into the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel and reaching for the baby. He wrinkled his nose as he picked his son up. “You really do need a change.”

“Told you,” House said. With a raised eyebrow, he continued, “My, my – don’t you look like the little housewife. Apron and everything.”

To House’s surprise, Wilson chuckled and looked down at himself. “You’re right. Although this place still feels more like a bachelor pad than a home for a family.”

“And that’s the way it’ll stay,” House said. “We’re not a family.”

But he couldn’t put his heart into it.

He watched Wilson as he left with the brat. Wilson could not possibly know where House’s thoughts sometimes took him – to that place where Wilson would stay with House forever, not a wife but a— _partner_. Where Wilson would stay in House’s bed, rather than on the couch.

But then, there was the matter of the little parasite Wilson loved to carry around everywhere. House had no idea what to do about it. Cutthroat Bitch had yet to return and demand to get the brat back, unfortunately, and House had the sneaking suspicion that even if she did, Wilson wouldn’t simply hand the kid back and let things return to the way they had been before. No, Wilson seemed to actually like the little devil, even when it woke up in the middle of the night, screaming its lungs out, or when it pooped all over the place just after Wilson had put on the new diaper. Really, Wilson didn’t just like the thing – he _loved_ it. And taking it away would make Wilson very, very unhappy. Which would, in turn, make House unhappy.

So, the way to make House happy was to keep Wilson happy, and the way to keep Wilson happy was to keep the brat around and happy.

Wilson appeared once more, content baby peering from his shoulder. House thought Wilson, who had taken off his tie and let his shirt be partly unbuttoned and loose, looked rather lovely.

“Dinner?” he asked.

“Five minutes,” Wilson replied.

”You’re no good as a housewife – you’re supposed to get it to me when I ask for it,” House said.

“Stop whining and set the table for the two of us,” Wilson said.

House grumbled, but stood and hobbled to the kitchen. Upon returning, he saw Wilson gently placing the brat on the colorful rug that had been bought especially for the kid a few days after Wilson had moved in. There was also a crib, which Wilson had brought from his and Cutthroat Bitch’s apartment. It clashed rather badly with its frills and pastel colors against the dark and dirty interior of House’s apartment. House had protested loudly at first, when Wilson had brought the crib with him.

“Nu-uh, no, no, no,” House said. “Not happening.”

“He needs to sleep somewhere,” Wilson said.

“What about that cot thingy?” House said. “He’s sleeping in that right now.”

“He can’t sleep in that forever,” Wilson said. “He needs a crib with some space.”

“He can share the couch with you - plenty of space,” House said.

In the end, he lost, because his argument that the hookers would either leave or gush upon seeing the crib had been squashed by Wilson, who had said that as long as he lived there with his son, there would be no hookers coming by. House had threatened to throw Wilson out, but somehow, in the end, he did not, and now the crib was there, light blue and frilly like there was no tomorrow, together with the colorful rug in blue and green.

“He’ll be colorblind when he grows up,” House said, taking a bite of his dinner.

“He’ll be fine,” Wilson said. “Colors are stimulating.”

“Then he’ll be gay, in all those pastels.”

Wilson shrugged. “There are worse things to be.”

House glanced at Wilson, wondering if Wilson would be equally okay if House told him that he might be a little bit gay. Well, when it came to Wilson at least – he had not been interested in another man since college.

“Here, dinner,” Wilson said, coming into the living room carrying two plates.

“Doesn’t smell all that—”

“House, shut up,” Wilson said. “We both know you’ll eat it and like it.”

“You know, you’re becoming far too comfortable here,” House said. “Being rude to the host and everything.”

“Yes, because you’re such a great host,” Wilson said, sitting down. “Scoot.” He handed House the plate. “You always buy the groceries, and cook the food, and clean up around here – I mean, what’s there to complain about?”

“Like I said, far too comfy,” House grumbled.

Of course, Wilson was hardly the only one getting comfortable in their little pseudo-family setup. House barred his own thoughts about it, because such thoughts couldn’t possibly lead anywhere good or happy, and he had – to his own great annoyance – found that he was almost that with these arrangements. House – happy? Blasphemy! Either way, he did not want to disturb the domestic bliss – he gave a mental snort at the idiocy of including himself in any such thing – and as such, he refused to dwell on just how much he liked living with Wilson. It didn’t matter.

Wilson leaned back into the couch for a moment, closing his eyes. House could see that he was tired; there were a hint of circles beneath his eyes, and a sense of lead-lining to the way he held his body. Not that it mattered – Wilson could probably starve on a deserted island for a year and still come off it looking good. Now, his hair fell in soft waves around his face and House didn’t want to touch it. Really, he didn’t.

He gave himself a mental slap and told himself to get it together. Nothing could possibly be helped by such thoughts. Wilson would run away and find ex-wife number four, and House would be left standing in the dust, wondering why the hell he had been so stupid.

“You’re watching me,” Wilson said, his eyes still closed. “TV no good?”

House frowned at having been caught. “Oh, you know, Jimmy, I’m just watching you sleep.”

Wilson snorted and opened his eyes lazily to look at him. “That sounds like a very House thing to do.”

“Gotta keep my repertoire fresh,” House said, glad that Wilson did not read more into it. “Keep everyone on their toes.”

Wilson yawned. “You keep me on my toes enough as it is. No need to try any harder.”

The thing on the floor started wailing and Wilson, almost finished with his food, set the plate aside and went to pick his son up. As Wilson took him to the kitchen to make the kid some milk, House stayed in the living room, doing what he did best – he ate Wilson’s food.

Peace of the kind that House and Wilson had experienced over the last few weeks was, by the natural order of things, not allowed to continue for long.

House woke up very early on Monday morning – the alarm clock read 04:13 and seemed to be taunting him – by the combined awfulness of the baby’s insistent cries, and his own leg’s throbbing pain. He heard Wilson shuffle about in the living room, banging his leg against the table and swearing about it, and he reached for his bottle of Vicodin, barely thinking as he popped off the lid, took a pill and dry-swallowed it. He lay back against the pillows, holding completely still in hopes of not aggravating the angry nerves. All the while, the baby simply refused to quiet down outside, and House felt a headache coming on. He tried calming breaths, knowing Wilson was not really at fault, but then, yes, he was at fault, because Wilson had made the goddamn screaming little devilish brat and damn it his leg hurt and—

“Would you get that thing to shut up!”

He yelled, and he knew he shouldn’t have, but then, House often did things he shouldn’t, so that knowledge did not help.

The crying continued, but Wilson stilled, no longer shuffling about. No response came – after all, yelling back would only serve to make the spawn cry even louder, the sound piercing through House’s skull like a long needle.

When the baby finally did quiet down, many long minutes later, House’s mood had already been shot to pieces, and he knew he wouldn’t get any more sleep. However, since the damn kid and its father lived in House’s living room, he wasn’t free to do whatever he wanted. Had it only been Wilson, House would not have cared – but waking the spawn up would mean listening to even more crying, and House’s head couldn’t take that.

Two hours later, which had passed in a semi-conscious state where House had been on the verge of sleep but not quite fallen, because each time he was about to, pain shot through his leg or his head, and sent him straight back to wakefulness.

Needless to say, House was in a horrid mood when morning came.

“I’m sorry we woke you this morning,” Wilson said quietly, making coffee in the kitchen as House shuffled about, leaning heavily on his cane because the pain simply would not loosen its grip on him.

“Next time, I’ll put a gag on it,” House said.

“It? Are we back to that?” Wilson asked, rather tiredly. “Look, I’m sorry – he gets hungry and it’s just the way it is. I can’t do anything about it.”

“You can always send it off to the bitch,” House snapped.

“House!” Wilson exclaimed, but House had turned and headed for the shower, because he couldn’t stand in the kitchen and debate with Wilson when his leg was hurting, his head was aching, the brat had just started making sounds again, and Wilson simply stood there, in boxers and a t-shirt, looking hot, despite the smell of baby vomit that seemed to linger in the apartment at all times these days.

Work didn’t improve his day. He ran into Cuddy by the elevators, and she smiled predatorily.

“Seeing how you have no case at the moment, you are going to be doing some catch-up on clinic duty,” she said.

“Let me think about that—no,” House said.

“It’s not a request, House. It’s an order,” Cuddy said.

“Didn’t know I’d ordered anything,” House snapped.

“House! Clinic. Now.”

House glared hotly at her. He didn’t want to be stuck in the clinic all day long, just because no one had managed to dig up a sufficiently difficult case for him. He didn’t particularly wish for anyone to dig up such a case for him either – he simply wanted to sit in his office and pop Vicodin all day long, preferably with no interruptions.

He should have stayed in bed. Oh, wait – no, someone woke him up from that. His expression darkened further, and Cuddy must have thought it was because she was ordering him to do clinic duty, and one hand went to her hip while the other one pointed at said clinic.

“Now.”

The coming hours filled with headaches, colds, STDs, a woman with the flu, a girl wanting birth control pills, and fourteen people claiming to have salmonella because they’d read an article in the newspaper. House growled, snapped and quite possibly risked several lawsuits. Not that it mattered to him – the pain in his leg simply didn’t want to give, and House refused to believe it had anything to do with fighting with Wilson earlier. After all, he rationalized, his leg pain had come before he started fighting with Wilson.

Said Wilson was at home when he finally was allowed to leave the hospital; after finding out that Cutthroat Bitch had left, Cuddy had decided that the three week paternity leave she had granted Wilson would be extended to a three month paternity leave, where Wilson would still be conferred with on important decisions and called in for the occasional consult, but mostly, he was allowed to stay at home and “bond with the child”, as she had put it. She was ridiculously gushy when it came to the kid, and it meant that Wilson had another week of occupying House’s apartment before he would be going back to work.

House thought as he drove home that the drive was the only calm he would have that day – PPTH and his apartment were equally filled with chaos and annoyances. He longed for his days of lonely misery, rather than the constant surrounding of people.

They hardly spoke when he arrived home. Wilson had made dinner; pasta and some sauce that tasted rather lovely really, but which House simply ignored, his irritation not yet having abated. The kid seemed to be in a fouler mood than usual, or perhaps House simply noticed it more – the screams, the smells, the general awfulness of a baby living in his home.

The rest of the week passed in much the same way, which was a downward spiral, because the less he and Wilson spoke, the more irritable House became, and the more irritable he became, the less they spoke. After two days, Wilson seemed to give up, no longer waiting to eat dinner with House but instead leaving containers of food for him to heat up in the refrigerator, no notes attached. House came home to an empty apartment on Wednesday, the baby carrier gone and no note telling House where or for how long. He didn’t know where Wilson left to go when he went out with the brat, but he told himself he didn’t care. It was spring time and they were probably out, enjoying nature or some such stupidity.

He caught a case on Friday morning, a girl presenting with dizziness, fever and twitching without any apparent cause, and he did not arrive home until nearly eleven at night, by which time the case had been solved. It had not been a particularly tough one after all.

Unlocking the door, House was surprised to say the least to find a young, blonde girl sitting on the couch, reading what looked like a teen magazine.

“Who are you?” House growled angrily, making the girl jump.

She had backed away several feet from the couch before House had taken another step.

“E-Emma,” the girl said. “I’m Emma—I live right across the street.”

“And you just thought you’d hang out in my apartment?” House asked, voice low and apparently threatening, because the girl backed away further.

“No—no,” she said. “I—Doctor Wilson asked me to baby-sit. He wanted to go out for a bit, I guess—he asked me just this afternoon—although he didn’t say he’d be this late—my mom’s gonna wonder where I’m at – it’s usually just an hour or two.”

She spoke fast, as though she was afraid of him killing her before she had the chance to explain herself.

“You’ve babysat for him before?”

The girl nodded. “A few times. It’s money, you know?”

“Yes, yes, so that you can go out and buy those shiny magazines and read all about what Lindsay and Britney did this week,” House snapped. “Fantastic.”

Wilson had let a complete stranger into House’s home? To do what? He seemed completely enamored with the brat – where would he go without it?

“Leave,” House said. “Wilson will pay you next time you see him.”

The girl didn’t seem to mind; she practically ran past him, grabbing her jacket as she went. She couldn’t possibly be more than fifteen, and House had to wonder why Wilson had thought it was a good idea to leave his kid with her.

Where was he anyway?

The door slammed shut behind the girl and House had only a moment to curse her before the irritating brat began wailing in his crib. _Wonderful_. What was he supposed to do now? He had hardly touched the brat since Wilson had moved in and he had _never_ picked him up. He wanted nothing to do with the annoying thing that had disrupted his life so completely.

But the baby kept crying and House knew it would only get worse unless he picked the kid up. Waiting for Wilson was not a possibility – who knew how long the idiot would be gone? House would quite possibly have an aneurysm before he returned.

Leaning his cane against the crib, it took two attempts before House had a good enough balance to be able to pick the baby up. The lump of his body felt odd in his hands, and he leaned him against his chest, changing his grip on the thing. It still cried, but seemed to calm down a bit as soon as it felt House’s body and perhaps heard his heartbeat. House had no idea what calmed babies. He moved slowly, carefully towards the couch, holding onto the baby carefully, because he knew that if anything happened to the kid, Wilson would have his head. He pretended that was the only reason for his care.

He couldn’t walk around with the brat as Wilson did – his leg barely supported him as he moved the few feet over to the couch – but it didn’t seem to matter. The kid was tired and with his wail lessening to hiccups and slowly becoming quiet breaths, House could simply sit with the unfamiliar lump resting on his chest.

He watched it. It had milky skin and tiny hands, fingers curled together around the fabrics of House’s shirt. Dark lashes created shadows on his chubby cheeks, and the chocolate hair on his head was the same color as Wilson’s. House tried to imagine the brat when he grew older, a combination of Cutthroat Bitch and Wilson, with bushy eyebrows and a rather long face, and he wondered what the kid would be like. Would he have an attitude like his mother, or the save-the-world-complex of his father?

He blamed his drowsiness for the thoughts – in the two months that had passed since Wilson and the kid had moved in, he had not thought like this so much as once.

He felt sleepiness wash over him, and he wondered why he had not tried holding a sleeping baby before, if it was this helpful against insomnia.

House startled awake from his slumber when a key was inserted into the keyhole of the front door. It took a few more seconds before the key was turned and then another moment before the handle was pushed down and the door opened.

“House?” Wilson said, and the slur of the word made it painfully obvious what Wilson had been out doing whilst a fifteen-year-old babysat his child.

House could still not see Wilson, as he was sitting with his back toward the front door and didn’t want to turn around for fear of waking the brat, but he heard the uncoordinated shuffling as Wilson moved around.

Then Wilson stood before him, staring. “Where’s Emma?”

“Oh, you mean the teenager you let into our home without a second thought? I sent her home,” House said. “It was way past her bedtime.”

He knew his tone was far from particularly pleasant, and he probably didn’t have any reason to be angry at Wilson, but he still was. Wilson was supposed to be the responsible one – he was certainly not supposed to hand his son to a stranger so that he could go out and get wasted on a Friday night.

He checked the clock on the DVD-player and corrected himself – _Saturday morning_.

“But you—” Wilson began, clearly even more unable than House to wrap his mind around the fact that House was sitting with the baby in his arms.

“He started wailing,” House snapped. “And seeing how daddy dearest was MIA, I thought it best to pick him up before he broke my skull with the noise.”

Wilson continued to stare. House could see the flush of his face and smell the booze, and a hint of cigarette smoke. His best friend was beyond drunk.

Wilson laughed suddenly, a crazed giggle that House had not heard before. “So this was all it took—me getting completely pissed and leaving him here—with her—and you. I’d’ve done it sooner—should’ve realized—”

He held out his arms to take the baby from House, but House’s hold tightened protectively.

“You’re not touching him in the state you’re in,” House snapped. “Go take a shower and sober up and then you can have him.”

“I should get drunk more often if this is the reaction I get,” Wilson said, straightening up unsteadily.

“If you do this again, I’m putting this thing out on the doorstep until it stops crying,” House said.

“You wouldn’t,” Wilson started, but then shook his head. “Well, you probably would.”

House worried about the lack of care in Wilson’s voice. Even drunk, Wilson shouldn’t allow House to say such a thing about his son – lord knew that if Wilson had been sober, he would have taken the brat from House and refused to let House get anywhere near him ever again.

“So what’s the occasion?” House asked.

Wilson looked at him with little understanding before he realized what House meant. “Oh. Well, the fantasticness that is my life of course. Really, do you need a reason for getting drunk? That’s rich, coming from you.”

He walked off, heading towards the kitchen with an unsteady gait, and House followed his movements. He didn’t get up to follow him, because for one thing, he had a baby in his arms, and for another, he was unsure of whether he wanted to or not. He didn’t really want to listen to why Wilson thought his life was so crappy that he felt the need to drink himself into oblivion.

Wilson returned, a beer in his hand. House was impressed that he had managed to get it open, with the lack of coordination he showed.

“Just a beer?” House asked, unpleasantly. “I’m pretty sure there’s whiskey and vodka, so why not go for that?”

“Wanted beer,” Wilson replied, shrugging.

He flopped down on the couch next to House. Close-up, the smell of alcohol on his breath was even more obvious. House decided against telling Wilson that he ought to be drinking water – Wilson wouldn’t listen and either way, he would have a killer headache come morning. It served him right.

“You’re not gonna ask me?” Wilson asked.

“Ask you what?”

“Why I don’t like my life,” Wilson said, rather softly, still slurring.

“No.”

“’course not,” Wilson said. “You don’t care.”

That was untrue, but House didn’t feel like admitting it. He did care, but he had never been good with heart to hearts, and listening to all the things Wilson disliked about his life – which were quite likely to involve a great deal about the lack of Cutthroat Bitch in his life – was more than he felt he could handle.

“It’s everything,” Wilson began anyway, not caring that House didn’t want to hear it. “Amber – I got an email from her, she’s in California, working and she’s happy. She asked about Sean, and I sent pictures but I haven’t heard from her since and I don’t really think she cares or wants to know.”

House tried his best not to listen. Cutthroat Bitch was the very last thing he wanted to discuss, no matter how much Wilson probably needed to talk about her.

“And then there’s Sean,” Wilson said, “and I do love him, really, but he’s—I don’t know what to do with him and maybe I’m not enough—I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never been a dad before, ‘m not supposed to do it on my own. He should’ve a mom.”

House had suspected Wilson’s guilt about being alone with his son, and not being enough for him. That House believed the kid to be better off without his mother was beside the point; she had left, which had automatically disqualified her as a mother, in House’s opinion. Of course, Wilson would never agree – he would say that it was hard for her, that she was thrown into it and that perhaps he forced her. It was all bullshit, because she’d had as much time as Wilson to prepare for it, and it was no harder for her than for any other first-time parent, and she did have a will of her own, a very strong will of her own, so if she didn’t want to have a kid, she could have – and should have – said no.

“He’ll be fine,” House said gruffly, mostly because Wilson was staring at him expectantly with brown puppy-dog eyes that begged for some sort of affirmation that he was not doing everything wrong.

“And then there’s _you_ ,” Wilson said, and he poked House in the arm and then took another couple of large sips of the beer. “You don’t care, and I should know that, because I’ve known you for a decade, but you’re still such an ass. Would it kill you to care just a little?”

“Probably,” House said.

“See, I don’t think it would,” Wilson said, as though House’s comment had been serious. “We have a good thing going here, and you just—you just refuse to alno—acko— _see_ it. I mean, I know he cries and wakes you and I know you have the leg and all, but it’s not that bad, not really. We work, the three of us, don’t we?”

House had to ask. “You _like_ living here?”

Wilson looked at his as though that was a given. “Wouldn’t’ve stayed here for two months if I didn’t.”

They sat in silence whilst Wilson finished his beer, and the baby slept on peacefully. It felt very warm against House’s shirt, but somehow, he did not mind. He knew it would wake up soon enough and demand food again, and he wondered if Wilson was up for making said food. Wilson really ought to stop drinking and go take a shower and then sleep.

When Wilson leaned in and placed a kiss on House’s cheek, just a smidge away from House’s mouth, House was unprepared. The kiss was rather wet and heavy on the alcohol, but House’s heart still raced. Wilson lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and House sat perfectly still, afraid to move.

Wilson pulled back, a satisfied, silly smile on his face. “Thank you, House.”

It didn’t seem to matter to Wilson that House had absolutely no idea what Wilson was thanking him for – and House suspected that Wilson didn’t have just a single thing in mind either – and he stood up from the couch, the beer can on the table, and stumbled towards the shower. Left on the couch, House stared after him, wondering what on earth that had all been about – and curious as to whether Wilson would remember any of it come morning.

 


	4. Chapter 4

  


As the Saturday morning sun rose, the baby began crying – and Wilson didn’t rouse. Cursing, House grabbed his bottle of Vicodin and downed a pill, his leg already constricting painfully. He managed to get out of bed, lifting his bad leg with both hands, and stood shakily, still drowsy from sleep. The brat’s insistent cries carried through the door, but House could tell that Wilson wasn’t awake yet, from the lack of shuffling.

He didn’t bother to be quiet as he stumbled outside, leaning rather heavily on the cane. If Wilson had managed to sleep through the baby’s cries so far, then he wouldn’t wake up from the sound of his footsteps.

The baby’s face was red and scrunched together in anger. House hoped that food was the problem rather than the diaper, because he wouldn’t be changing that, no matter what.

He managed to lift up the baby on the first attempt this time.

“You are a loud thing, aren’t you?” he muttered, and the baby wailed unhappily. “Yeah, yeah—you don’t smell like crap, so I guess it’s that morning smoothie of milky goodness you want?”

Wilson snored loudly on the couch, one arm draped over his face an the other one holding onto the blanket, and one foot rested on the floor. He looked like he had passed out rather than fallen asleep. As House shuffled past him, carrying his cane and holding the kid, he wondered once more just how much Wilson had had to drink, to be able to sleep through the noise.

He would have claimed to have no knowledge of how to make the formula the baby drank several times each day, had Wilson asked, but as it was not Wilson asking, House sighed and made it. It only took a few minutes, but he already had a headache by the time it was finished. The baby took the bottle and became blissfully quiet as he began suckling.

“At least your daddy’s going to have a worse headache than the one you just gave me,” House said, a slight smirk on his face. He had no intention of making Wilson’s hangover any easier for him.

Once the baby had eaten, House put it to his shoulder, because one could not possibly go through medical school without knowing that a baby needed burping after eating. He placed a towel under the baby’s chin, because baby vomit was gross.

When it had been fed and burped, House placed it, with some difficulty because he couldn’t simply drop it down, on the rug in the kitchen, and then he proceeded to make himself a much-needed cup of coffee.

He wondered what Wilson would say when he woke up – other than ‘ugh’, that was, because that was a given with the hangover he was bound to have. Would he remember the previous night at all, or had he drunk himself so much into oblivion that it would be a black hole? Would he remember thanking House – House still did not know what for – and would he remember kissing House’s cheek? And whether or not he remembered, what should House do about it?

Nothing, he told himself. He should and would do nothing.

When the diaper began smelling – after the brat made a concentrated face that House recognized with a sigh – House walked into the living room.

He stood at the end of the couch, watching the snoring Wilson for a moment. He wore a shirt, the same one he had worn last night, and he had only managed to remove one sock before collapsing on the couch. His hair was in disarray in a way that he would never allow it to be when he was awake, his mouth slightly open, and House had to think that it looked almost—cute.

He poked at Wilson with his cane, starting at his foot and then moving upwards to the side of his stomach, because Wilson didn’t move so much as a toe.

“Leave me—‘lone,” he mumbled, shuffling on the small couch, clearly still asleep.

“No can do,” House said, cheerily and rather loudly, because Wilson was never kind to House when he was hung over – or had done some rather stupid medical experiment that lead to a hangover. “You’ve got a kid that needs a changing.”

“Mhm,” Wilson mumbled, sleeping on.

House kept poking his side, pondering whether he should go out and get some water to place Wilson’s hand in so that he would wet himself again, but decided against it, because he did not recycle pranks. Then he thought of a bucket of ice to dump on Wilson, but that seemed like a lot of work, and it would be hard to carry the bucket, so he didn’t.

Then he thought about bending down and kissing Wilson – perhaps the shock would wake him up. However, if he did wake up, Wilson might not be feeling so well, and he might end up puking all over House. House wanted to avoid that, because grown-up vomit was even grosser than baby vomit. And besides, kissing Wilson was an exceptionally stupid idea.

He settled on yelling, “Wilson!” in a long, drawn out and rather high pitch.

Wilson groaned and opened one bleary eye, then quickly shut it again.

“House,” he muttered, as though it hadn’t been obvious who had made the noise.

“Wakey, wakey, sunshine,” House said, in a tone far too chipper. “It’s a bright new day – don’t you think it’s _glorious_?”

“Go ‘way,” Wilson mumbled. Both arms now covered his eyes, to keep any light from seeping in.

“Aw, is little Wilson tired today?” House said, relishing in not being the hung over one for once. He tried to recall the last time Wilson had been this bad, but couldn’t think of one.

He poked Wilson’s side again and Wilson gasped.

“If you do that again, ‘m gonna puke,” Wilson said.

“Yeah, well, that’s your problem,” House said. “What’s also your problem is the little brat on my kitchen floor, who smells like—well, it would probably be unkind to tell you—”

He smiled angelically at Wilson, who moved suddenly, perhaps to sit up, at the mention of his son.

“Sean,” he said, but then fell back on the couch, and House could see the waves of nausea wash over him. Wilson swallowed, over and over, trying to quell the queasiness. “Might wanna get me a bucket or something.”

His words were quiet now, and rather filled with shame. House wanted to curse him – that note of shame would take the fun out of taunting Wilson.

He did get a bucket, because he didn’t want Wilson to puke all over his living room floor – Wilson wouldn’t be in any state to clean it up, and if House didn’t, it would stay on the floor for several hours before Wilson managed, and that was a smell House could do without.

It took only a couple of moments after House handed Wilson the bucket, before he vomited the first time. House turned away and walked into the kitchen, where the scent of coffee still won over the smell of the dirty diaper.

Wilson stood in the doorway a few minutes later, looking as pale as a sheet. There seemed to be no color in his cheeks whatsoever, his movements were careful but jerky, and he kept swallowing back nausea.

“I’ll change him now,” Wilson mumbled.

He shook as he bent over, his face set in concentration, and picked the baby off the floor. The baby cooed in his father’s arms, still seeming happy despite the diaper. Wilson moved carefully out of the kitchen, his eyes not meeting House’s.

House heard the sounds of retching coming from the bathroom, and the change of the diaper took nearly three times longer than normal.

“Not up to your usual standards?” House asked, loudly, when Wilson returned.

Wilson winced, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please, House.”

“Oh no,” House said, smirking. “If you’d been ill, I might’ve been nice, but this is all your own doing. Face the consequences of your own actions – isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

Wilson glared. “I’m going to lie down again. Can you keep an eye on him?”

“I think I’ll manage,” House said, “considering I’ve done it for the last eleven hours.”

Wilson frowned for a moment, but didn’t say anything. House wondered what he remembered of the night before; Wilson’s expression gave nothing away, other than that he was still feeling ill. Perhaps he was still too concentrated on not puking again, and couldn’t think clearly. If a discussion of the previous night’s events was to happen – and House really preferred it if no such talk ever took place, but if Wilson remembered, he would surely bring it up – it would have to wait.

When night fell, House felt more rested than he had in a while. Some semblance of guilt had kept him in the apartment all day long, to keep an eye on both Wilson and the brat – because a part of him knew that he had been one of the reasons Wilson had been out drinking to begin with. He didn’t admit that reason even to himself, though – he told himself that the only reason he had stayed home all day was that it was raining outside and he didn’t want to get wet.

Wilson came shuffling into the kitchen. He had been up and about through the day – House had fed the baby and kept it somewhat entertained, but resolutely refused to change him, which meant it was Wilson’s job. House had also heard him run the shower, but he stopped the thoughts of Wilson in the shower before they produced images in his head that he shouldn’t have.

“Didn’t think you knew how to do that stuff,” Wilson said.

House looked up from his spot with the baby in his arms, happily downing a bottle of milk.

“I didn’t,” House said. “Cuddy came by and made it.”

“House, I’m hung over, not blind and deaf,” Wilson said. “I’d’ve noticed.”

House shrugged.

He wondered if he should offer to help more. He probably should. Sure, the brat was Wilson’s and had nothing to do with House, but at the same time, it did have something to do with him. Wilson was obviously not coping as well as House had hoped he would. Then again, helping wasn’t House’s style.

Perhaps he shouldn’t offer, but simply take the kid every once in a while when it was screaming, so that Wilson could rest.

“Want me to take him?” Wilson asked.

“Eat some dinner and then you can have him,” House said gruffly. “He’ll just start screaming if we take away the bottle now.”

Wilson regarded him with a small smile that was borderline amused. “Right. You made dinner?”

“Not a chance,” House said, “but I do have the Chinese place on speed-dial.”

A chuckle escaped Wilson, and House reveled in the sound. He could make Wilson smile, even in the midst of the hangover from hell, which in turn had come to be because Wilson was miserable.

“Going out again tonight?” House asked.

“No,” Wilson said. “I—uh, don’t think there’ll be any going out in a while.”

“Perhaps you should tell Emma, so that she’s not counting on the babysitting money,” House said. He regretted it immediately, knowing he had given Wilson an in to discuss the previous night.

Wilson stilled at his words. He had his back to House as he was putting Chinese food on a plate, and House could see his shoulders tense up.

“I just needed some time alone,” Wilson said, turning slowly to face House.

House realized that Wilson had been needing the exact same thing House had been needing. Wilson hadn’t even had the luxury of going to work every morning – he had been stuck with the baby all day and all night. House’s foul mood could hardly have made it any easier. Not that House strove for making Wilson’s life easier, but still—

“Thanks for taking care of him last night,” Wilson said. “I—lost track of time, I guess.”

“It was nearly four in the morning by the time you got in, so yeah,” House said. “Way to go on being the responsible father.”

He wondered why he kept stabbing Wilson with the knife of guilt, when the man obviously already felt enough. He watched as Wilson’s face crumbled, his arms falling to his sides, fingers only loosely holding onto a fork. Guilt and shame radiated off him in waves.

“I’m not the responsible father,” Wilson said softly. “There, are you happy now? I am horrid – I leave my own child with a teenager and I go out and get drunk beyond oblivion to forget everything and—”

He trailed off, eyes cast to the floor, obviously unable to meet House’s gaze.

The baby spit out the nipple. House grabbed the towel he had put on the kitchen table, by which he sat, and placed it on his shoulder. Without a word, he shifted the baby to rest against his shoulder as well, rubbing small circles on the baby’s back.

He looked up to find Wilson staring at him, eyes wide and shocked.

“Never seen a man with a baby before?” House said, voice snappish but also amused with the look on Wilson’s face.

“You—you,” Wilson said, but didn’t get any farther.

“If I help, will you stop this incessant self-pitying and self-doubting thing you’ve got going?” House asked, all the while wondering what he was getting himself into.

“You’d help? With Sean?” Wilson asked, sounding shell-shocked.

“Yeah,” House muttered. “I seem to be doing it anyway.”

“But you don’t even call him by his name,” Wilson asked. “He’s always ‘it’ or ‘the brat’ or—you’d help with him?”

“I think I just said so,” House said. “Although you’re already making me regret it. And I’m still not changing any diapers.”

Wilson nodded. “Okay. All right. Anything you’re willing to do—”

House thought that there was a number of things he was willing to do, that were probably not on Wilson’s list.

“Yeah, well, it can’t be that much now,” House said. “You’re going back to work on Monday and he’ll be in daycare all day.”

“I’m sure we can find something for you to do,” Wilson said, and there was some happiness in his voice once more. House felt his pride return; he was making Wilson happy. It was something he had little experience with – most of the time, he only managed to get Wilson miserable, be it by taking too many pills, or making him lose his job. He realized that this did, in fact, feel rather nice.

Wilson warmed his food in the microwave and once it was hot, he sat down in the chair opposite House and ate quietly.

“You do realize you’d be doing something nice for me, right?” Wilson asked.

“You know, I’m already regretting my offer,” House said, but his tone was playfully snappish, rather than angry.

Wilson chuckled, and House couldn’t help but grin back.

“Thanks, House,” Wilson said.

House wondered for a brief moment if he would lean over the table and kiss House again. They gazed at each other, and House thought that those warm, brown eyes were really lovely enough to drown in. But then the moment was broken, as the baby burped rather loudly, and Wilson chuckled and asked if he should take him. House handed him the baby, still wondering what Wilson had been thinking just moments earlier.

On Wilson’s suggestion, they spent their Sunday – the last day before Wilson returned to work – in the park.

“This feels ridiculously domesticated,” House said as he hobbled along with his cane, Wilson pushing the baby carrier.

“I didn’t force you to come,” Wilson said easily.

“No one can refuse your puppy-dog eyes,” House said sarcastically, as though it wasn’t the truth.

“Good to know,” Wilson smiled. “There’s a café over there, do you want to sit down?”

“Well, you know, the cane is just for show,” House said. “Really, I can walk all day.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, smiling again. “Café it is.”

House wondered if he would ever get enough of Wilson’s smiles. They were beautiful.

They drank coffee and the baby made noises until it was fed, and then changed in the bathroom. Then House and Wilson stayed for a while longer, talking about the décolletages of the girls running past the café windows, wearing only sport bras and tight pants, and House pretended that they were the ones who made him horny, rather than the man sitting across form him.

Come night time, House and Wilson sat side by side on House’s couch, and watched a game of football while the baby slept in the crib on the other side of the room. A beer each stood on the table, but no more; Wilson refused to get so much as tipsy.

“I’ve had enough for the rest of the year,” Wilson said.

“And all in one night,” House said. “You should get a medal.”

“Or a call from Child Services,” Wilson said, sounding miserable all at once.

“Now that’s some quality self-loathing right there,” House said. “As if you’re the first parent to go out and get drunk. I’m surprised it took you nearly three months to do it.”

He watched as one of the teams scored, and couldn’t find it in himself to care. He could feel Wilson’s gaze boring into him, and he sighed.

“What? I think you should’ve gone out and gotten drunk way earlier,” House said. “She left you with a kid, just like that. I’d’ve been drunk the very same night.”

He hated being so honest about himself and his flaws, but he knew that put in Wilson’s situation, he would have handled it far worse. Then again, he would never have been happy about becoming a father in the first place. Undoubtedly, he had some things in common with Cutthroat Bitch.

“But you let us stay.” Wilson’s words were soft.

“Huh?” said House, turning to look at Wilson.

“You let us stay,” Wilson repeated. “Here. And you didn’t drown your sorrows in alcohol. You didn’t throw us out. You just—let us stay.”

“Yeah, well, that hotel isn’t the place for a kid,” House said grumpily, wondering how he was going to steer this talk away from himself and other decidedly dangerous subjects.

Wilson’s eyebrow rose. “I’m sure you just had Sean’s well-being in mind when you let us stay.”

“Why not?” House snapped. “Him happy, you happy. Seemed like a logical choice.”

He regretted the words immediately. He never, ever admitted to Wilson that he wanted Wilson happy. Wanting Wilson to be happy meant he cared, and he didn’t. He _didn’t_.

Except for the part that loved Wilson, of course, said a little voice at the back of his mind.

Wilson stared at him, confusion turning into a soft smile. “You want me happy?”

“Right now? No, right now I want me dead,” House said, crossing his arms over his chest and resolutely staring at the TV-screen, all the while being acutely aware of Wilson’s close proximity.

He felt, and saw out of the corner of his eye, Wilson move, coming closer to House. Their legs brushed each other, and House imagined he could feel Wilson’s breath against his own, although he was still a bit too far away for that to be possible.

“What about you, House?” Wilson asked. “Do I make you happy?”

House wanted to snap at Wilson – ‘what kind of question is that’ or ‘no, you make me want to kill myself’ or something else rude that would have Wilson running in the opposite direction – but he couldn’t make himself. He knew that this was it, this was his chance. He didn’t know what Wilson was fishing for, exactly, but he knew that Wilson would never do anything to hurt House, at least not consciously. Agreeing to Tritter’s deal, that had hurt House, but Wilson had had his best interest at heart. All the times Wilson had tried to get House to lower his dosage of Vicodin had given House pain, but those were Wilson’s attempts to protect House from himself.

Wilson wouldn’t do anything to hurt House; he didn’t have it in him. If House was reading Wilson wrong – and he could be, because Wilson still sat far enough away from House that it could be friends-distance, rather than anything more – then Wilson wouldn’t use it against him. It would be hellishly embarrassing, but they would get over it. House would get over his crush, and Wilson would stay, because that was what Wilson did.

The answer to Wilson’s question was so obvious that it could have been shouted from the rooftops, had House been the silly kind who did such things. He was not, and he answered by giving a simple, tiny nod.

He didn’t dare to look at Wilson; instead he closed his eyes and awaited the answer, the chuckle, the retort, whatever response Wilson deemed fitting.

“Good,” Wilson said, very softly. “Because despite that mouth and temper of yours, you make me very happy, too.”

House opened his eyes, glancing briefly at Wilson, quite certain that he had fallen asleep. Wilson met his gaze steadily, his brown eyes warm and—loving. House couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so much love in someone else’s eyes.

They moved simultaneously, lips meeting hesitantly in the middle, trying out new grounds after years of friendship. Wilson’s lips were warm and soft, his chin only with the barest hint of stubble. The scent of aftershave still lingered, together with that smell that was simply Wilson. House wondered when he had been close enough to smell Wilson before; they had hardly ever touched.

His thoughts flew out the window as Wilson’s tongue darted out, running across House’s lower lip. House’s lips parted easily, and his own tongue warred with Wilson’s; it was a competition but one that House, for once, didn’t mind losing.

They pulled apart, panting slightly, and Wilson rested his head against House’s shoulder, hand picking up House’s and lacing their fingers together.

“I thought I might get a face full of fist for that,” Wilson said softly, a chuckle escaping him. “This was much better.”

House looked down at the top of Wilson’s head, wondering what on earth had just happened. In five minutes, his entire world had changed, standing on end and creating complete turmoil. Yet at the same time, he marveled at how it was possible that in the midst of that chaos, he felt more at peace than he had in years.

Wilson looked up. “You okay?”

House nodded mutely, for once having lost the ability to speak. Wilson smiled, that smile that brightened even the darkest of House’s days, and House realized that his leg was, for once, not throbbing as badly as it usually did.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” Wilson said.

“You have?” House asked, wondering how he, who prided himself on being able to read people in general and Wilson in particular, had missed that.

Wilson nodded against House’s chest. “Yeah. When I realized that I preferred playing house with you, more than I liked doing it with Amber—it just became obvious what I really wanted.”

“Cutthroat Bitch didn’t deliver?” House asked.

Wilson chuckled, and House realized that it was the first time he had heard Wilson be happy when he spoke of the Bitch. “Oh, she delivered. And before you say anything, so did I. Obviously, otherwise Sean wouldn’t be here. I loved her, I did. But she just—”

“Would have been ex-wife number four,” House filled in. “I told you she was a proxy.”

“Yeah, well, you are supposed to be the smartest doctor in town,” Wilson said.

“On the East coast,” House corrected him.

“And yet you missed the fact that I’d fallen in love with you,” Wilson said.

House stilled – he hadn’t thought Wilson would go quite as far as to proclaim that just yet. It had taken House months just to admit to himself that he had fallen for his best friend; he had no idea how long it would take before he could say as much to Wilson.

Wilson sat up, and looked at House. “Yeah, I’m in love with you. I don’t expect you to say anything back, because you’re you, and that’s fine. I think I know anyway.”

House wished he was as at peace with everything as Wilson was, but despite having realized several months ago that he was in love, his world was still upside down now that he knew it was recruited.

“You’ve got it all figured out,” he said, voice rather rough.

“Not everything,” Wilson said. “But I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?” House asked.

“You,” Wilson smiled. “You and Sean, and us as a family.”

House allowed his imagination to run free for a moment, in fantasies that he had not dared think of since realizing he was in love with Wilson. He saw Wilson, making dinner for the three of them, the kid growing, the splitting image of his father. He saw himself, going to bed at night, Wilson occupying the other side, perhaps waiting naked beneath the sheets.

“And what if Cutthroat Bitch comes back?” House asked, and he ignored the stab of fear that her return would mean that Wilson would leave him behind.

“I don’t think she will,” Wilson said, “but if she does, we’ll deal with it. But you’re the one I want.”

“But we’ll fight,” House said.

“No kidding,” Wilson said, rather amused. “I’ve been friends with you for a decade, House. I don’t expect things to change all that much, except—well, you know. I mean, we already live together, and we already hang out a lot. We’ll fight, of course, because you wouldn’t be you otherwise.”

“Yeah, like it’s all my fault,” House grumbled.

“Of course it is,” Wilson said, smiling. “I’m the Boy Wonder Oncologist. I can do no wrong.”

“Humility isn’t one of your stronger points, you know,” House said.

“I’m surprised you even know the meaning of the word,” Wilson replied. Then he leaned forward again and pressed another kiss against House’s lips, a kiss filled with love and promise and other ridiculous things that House didn’t think should be possible to feel in a kiss at all. And House realized that yes, they would fight, and yes, there would be times when he would want to leave, but god how he wanted this.

When they parted, there was a grin on House’s lips.

“Just so we’re clear,” House said. “You’re the girl. I’m the man. You keep making dinners, and I keep refusing to change the diapers.”

Wilson chuckled, all the while rolling his eyes. “Of course. If I came home to a meal cooked by you, I’d probably have a heart attack from the shock of it.”

“Good, then that’s decided,” House said. “No cooking for me.”

“Like I said, I’m not expecting things to change much,” Wilson said.

“Other than me doing naughty things to you in the bedroom, that is,” House said, grinning.

“Yeah,” Wilson said, rolling his eyes but chuckling all the while. “Other than that.”

Just then, the baby woke up for his midnight snack. The wails filled the room, but House couldn’t stop smiling. He suspected his face would hurt, come morning, if this continued – he hadn’t smiled this much since—well, since ever.

Wilson placed another kiss on House’s lips, and stood to get the thing that seemed to have started it all – Sean.

\---

_“A new baby is like the beginning of all things - wonder, hope, a dream of possibilities.”_

\- Eda J LeShan

 


End file.
